John
by dariiizkool
Summary: 'You didn't come to me, so I came to you.' Inspired by a gif set. Twas sad, almost made me cry. T to be safe. Hints at Johnlock. Pic isn't mine.


**Hi all! Darii here. I'd just like to share with you, my sister's fanfic based on a gif set thingie she saw. I literally saw tears in her eyes (jk). Well anyway, here it is. Hope you all enjoy.**

**Slight hints at Johnlock because that's the ship of dreams and the stuff of legend. Be warned.**

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"_John…"_

Sherlock wakes up with his flatmate's name on his lips. It's the same dream, the same memory; he's standing on the roof of St Barts with the world below him and a sniper aiming at John.

He has been staying in a rundown hotel in Russia for the past week.

Only two good things come from him being here. One, he's brushing up on his Russian and two; him being here keeps John (and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade) safe.

He's travelled all over the world, hunting down the last of Moriarty's contacts, for over three years. It seems like every time he killed one contact, another would emerge in his place. A rather tiresome ordeal.

He does that now. Kill people.

The first time had been exhilarating. A man. Old. Pretending to be French but couldn't disguise his Italian accent, not from Sherlock anyways. He had multiple lovers and his wife knew but didn't mind. The jewelry he lavished her with was enough of a recompense for the affairs. He also had three kids, two boys and a girl. Was allergic to dogs but had recently bought two newborn German Shepherds because his children loved them.

The kill had been messy. Bullets to the brain – a trajectory speeding at over fifty-six miles per hour towards the frontal lobe – usually are.

But Sherlock had been happy enough to clean the mess that had been left behind. He'd used Ajax (stronger than grease) since John habitually used it to mop up Sherlock's experiments. And then he'd examined, chopped up, re-examined and finally drowned the man in hydrochloric acid – available in such copious amounts due to Mycroft's insistence to help.

But after that first kill, Sherlock had decided to let Mycroft's minions clean up the messes he left behind because after that first kill, he'd been ready to go home. Back to 221B Baker Street and John and his experiments.

This man, the last contact, is his ticket home. No more resisting the urge to deduce, no more running and hiding, no more killing. Not from Sherlock's hands, not after this man.

His mobile – one of the few things he'd been able to keep from his past life – rings, pulling him from his thoughts and… oh dear God no, it's Mycroft.

"Sherlock…" his brother begins.

He's in the process of making small talk when Sherlock cuts in. "Skip the pleasantries Mycroft." He begins in a contemptuous tone. "You wouldn't have called unless it was a matter of upmost importance. What is it? Are the current varieties of pastries in London not to your liking? Blasphemy! How dare th-"

"Sherlock…" Mycroft interrupts.

The only reason Sherlock stops talking is because of Mycroft's manner of speaking. Gone is the world-weary and snappy tone, in its place is a hesitant and unsure voice.

"What is it?" Sherlock demands to know.

For a few seconds there is nothing but silence from the other side. Normal in an average conversation – whether held over the phone or in person – but not normal for Mycroft. That man knows what to say no matter what situation he's in and he never pauses to think because his brain has already assessed the situation and all the possible outcomes.

"What. Is. It." Every word is emphasized and they do not string together to be a question, they string together to be demand a quick and honest answer.

But he does not get an answer.

Instead Mycroft chooses to say: "Moscow is rather cold this time of the year." In a breezy voice that he's never once used whilst speaking with Sherlock.

"Moscow's always cold." Sherlock snaps bitingly. "What is it? Has John-"

He hears Mycroft's breath hitch – unintentionally and without his consent – over the line and for the first time in his life, his brain is silent without the help of drugs.

"John?" Sherlock repeats the name and waits for Mycroft's answer.

"It's time to come back Sherlock."

Back? Back where? Why not back home?

"One more person, Mycroft, just this man and then its o-"

"Sherlock… it's time to come back."

This time Sherlock voices his previous thoughts. "Back where?" He asks. "Home? Back to John?"

For the second time, Sherlock hears Mycroft's breath hitch and it causes a pool of dread to form in Sherlock's stomach.

"Just back." Mycroft replies and his voice is so soft and kind that it sickens Sherlock and shakes him down to his very core.

Another silence befalls them and this time, several minutes pass before it is broken.

"I do…" Mycroft clears his throat, a clear indication that he's uncomfortable and does not know how to proceed. "I am sorry Sherlock. I hope, in time, you will forgive me."

Sherlock finds his mouth is rather dry when he opens it to speak. "What… Mycroft, what's happened?"

"A private jet is waiting for you at Moscow International Airport. There is a black Nissan Sedan, license number AE3245, waiting outside your current position. Come back Sherlock."

Before Sherlock can demand an explanation, Mycroft hangs up. It's no use calling him back. He's probably discarded the mobile, tossed it into the fireplace most likely.

For once in his life, Sherlock does as he's told. He follows Mycroft's instructions and finds himself standing next to a private jet within the hour.

Mycroft isn't inside, of course not; the man couldn't bear to leave London unless London herself called for it. But Irene Adler i-_what_?

Sherlock stops moving for a second as his mind fires questions and their answers around his brain.

What is she doing here?

Obviously something big must have happened for her to be here. Something Mycroft does not want to be around for. Something sentimental, since she can handle subjects on that matter better than Mycroft can.

Why and when did she start working with Mycroft?

Couldn't keep herself out of trouble, news of her not being a rotting corpse must have spread and the people after her would have rediscovered their passion for revenge and come after her with vigor. Mycroft would have been her only option.

So, she works for Mycroft and in return, he offers her protection.

Not a bad deal, but Sherlock knows that The Woman cannot bear to have her allegiance tied down to one cause, it's in her nature. She'll turn on Mycroft soon enough – betraying London's secrets to one of the people after her, fraternizing with the enemy, or, God forbid, trying to get into Mycroft's pants – and though he'll be prepared, she'll get away.

"Do take a seat, Mr Holmes." She calls out tearing her eyes away from the window and to him. "I won't bite… not unless you want me to."

He makes his way to her, face carefully void of any and all emotions. As soon as he's sat opposite her, Mycroft's assistant, the one with the ever-changing names, steps out from the cockpit.

Ah yes, Sherlock was wondering where she was. Wherever Mycroft cannot or refuses to go, she will most certainly be there.

She's not holding her Blackberry in her hands like she usually does. She holds manila envelope between her fingers instead. And she looks almost as uncomfortable as Mycroft had sounded.

She walks up to Sherlock, hands him the envelope. Irene watches him take it into his hands with a raised eyebrow but it does not indicate she's amused. She knows what's going on, but she doesn't like it – no, she wants to see the consequence but she doesn't want to be there for the aftermath.

Sherlock turns the envelope in his hands, feeling for what's inside it but his gaze continually befalls on The Woman. Why is she trying to mask her emotions? Why is she here? Is she here on Mycroft's orders or is she here voluntarily?

The assistant begins heading towards the exit.

"You're not coming along?" Sherlock questions her as he continues to turn the envelope between his fingers.

He looks up just in time to catch her mouth come up in a tight and sympathetic – sympathetic? why sympathetic? – smile.

"I'll be catching the next one." She informs him, her eyes fall on The Woman and she opens her mouth to say: "Ms Adler, if you would please conduct your business and join me."

Ms Adler nods while lighting up a cigarette. "I shouldn't be too long darling." She breathes out.

Mycroft's assistant gives a nod in return and exits the jet. There is a silence – and Sherlock is sick of silences – in which Ms Adler continues to smoke her cigarette. Inhaling the toxins and exhaling the fumes and smoke with calculated movements. She does so while looking out the window, eyes scanning the empty runway. It is only when the jet's engines start up that she looks towards Sherlock, but it's only for a second and then her gaze is turning away once more.

"You were always so emotional." She murmurs.

This confuses Sherlock, just as she used to. "Beg pardon?"

Her lips twitch up into a smile. "From all of us, the geniuses, you were the one that felt emotions."

Sherlock feels the need to retort. "You were hardly a genius, Ms Adler. And as I recall, you were the one who fell for me." He reminds her.

She gives him another glance from the corner of her eyes. "I may have fallen for a… what was it that you called yourself? Oh yes, a high-functioning sociopath but, darling, at least I didn't fall for someone so… average and sentimental. And please, it's Irene; we should be on a first name basis after all we've been through."

Sherlock decides not to voice his thoughts on the matter, choosing to glare at her instead.

"Oh don't look at me like that, darling." Ms Adler speaks while putting out her cigarette. "You'll damage your skin if you continue pouting."

Sherlock lets the envelope fall to his lap and leans forward to grab her wrists. He pulls her closer and takes a few moments to observe. No dilated eyes, no racing pulse, no sudden shortage of breath or signs of flushing skin. He pulls away as she gazes at him with amusement curling around the smile on her lips.

"I fell for a high-functioning sociopath, Mr Holmes." She tells him. "But you're not him."

Sherlock feels the need to point out that she had recently suggested they be on a first name basis but only now she's just calling him by his surname. But before he can, she tugs her hands from his grip and stands up; brushing down the black coat she's wearing for imaginary crease lines.

"Your brother once told you that care is not an advantage." She sighs and continues brushing her coat. "You should have followed that piece of advice."

And then she's heading towards the exit as well and Sherlock's brain is screaming at him to open the envelope. But before he can, she calls out one last time.

"Goodbye Mr Holmes."

Sherlock offers no pleasantries in return and she leaves. As soon as the jet door closes, Sherlock picks the envelope up. But instead of opening it, he spends thirty minutes contemplating and running every possible scenario through his mind. When he pulls away from his Mind Palace, he realizes that he's been talking to the envelope – the object is a rather poor substitute for John.

There is none of his usual patience or care as his fingers finally pry the envelope open. He's been kept in suspense for far too long to have any sense of self-control.

"It's a note." He murmurs when he flips the envelope upside down and a folded piece of paper falls into his waiting hand. "Written on a standard A4 size paper that's been torn from a Yellow spiral notebook. Two, no three days, since it's been ripped out." He unfolds the paper and continues his deductions. "Whoever wrote it was upset. Weren't too sure about what they were writing in the beginning but their resolve grew as they c-"

"_Hang on." John cuts in. "How did you get that from two lines worth of writing?"_

"Don't be so dull John." Sherlock rolls his eyes and proceeds to reveal his findings. "The pen used was a black felt tip – the Fineliner brand – now that doesn't tell us about the writer's emotions but their handwriting. The letter was written in a rush, the first few words are barely readable, indicating that the writer was more emotional and hesitant when he began writing. And here, near the end, the words are written in slow and affirmative strokes, that's when he grew calm and sure."

"_Amaz-"_

"Mycroft's definitely read it, the fat bastard." Sherlock cuts in absentmindedly.

"_Oi, be nice. He's your brother." John admonishes._

"What? Why? That man can't keep his abdominally large nose out of other people's business." Sherlock informs John with a huff. "And he cannot, for the life of him, differentiate between a private letter and a large slice of hot, oozing, creamy apple pie. It's a wonder he isn't morbidly obese."

_John giggles. "Stop it, he's your brother."_

"Clearly a fact you're not going to let me forget any time soon." Sherlock mutters under his breath. "Now shut up. I'm trying to concentrate."

John falls silent as Sherlock takes a closer look at the writing.

"You've clearly written it. No other written word can compare to the chicken scrawl that you call writing. And the message… the message…" Sherlock trails off.

While observing the letter, Sherlock had somehow managed to forget who exactly had written it. And he forgets it yet again, when he reads the message.

"You didn't come back, so I'll come to you." He reads out. "You didn't come back, so I'll come to you." He repeats the message, unable to make sense of the words. "Well that was a rather short letter. What do you think John? You're our current resident expert in sentiment. What does this mean?"

Sherlock waits for a reply while concentrating on the letter but there is none. Finally he tears his eyes away from the familiar writing to gaze at his surroundings.

"John?"

It takes him a moment to realize that he's not in their flat, a moment to realize that he'd just stimulated their entire conversation in his mind. It takes him a moment to realize that John is not by his side.

And in that moment, Sherlock hates his most prized and beloved possession. He hates his mind.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock's mind has failed him, and it fails him yet again when he tries to delete the conversation from his mind. So he gives up on trying and turns his concentration to the letter, to the message… to John's message for him.

And then his fingers are curling into a fist, scrunching the paper from where's he's holding it. He stands up and mechanically walks towards the cockpit. When he knocks, the co-pilot opens the door immediately.

"May I help you sir?"

"Turn this jet around." Sherlock commands him.

The man frowns. "Sir, we have direct orders from Mr Holmes t-"

"You're trapped in a loveless marriage and were thinking about having an affair with the women who recently left this aircraft. What you don't know is that they are both unavailable to the likes of you. A man troubled by his abusive past. Your father beat y- no, your mother beat you. Well Ms Adler is most definitely ill-suited for you. Mycroft's assistant is not an option either; this was and will be the last time you will see her. Now turn this aircraft around immediately!"

The man gulps and excuses himself. He begins closing the door – with no intention of telling the pilot of Sherlock's demand – and Sherlock's about to inform him that there is a high chance – eighty-six percent to be exact – that his wife is cheating on him when his mobile rings.

By the time Sherlock's brought the mobile to his ear, the cockpit door is closed.

"Sherlock, I do insist upon your return." Mycroft's voice comes through.

"Mycroft." Sherlock snarls and then inhales deeply in a failed attempt to calm himself. "One last job. Just one last job and then I can… I can come h-"

"That's entirely unnecessary Sherlock." Mycroft informs him. "My men are taking care of the situation as we sp-"

"Your _minions_ couldn't take care of Moriarty and neither could you and now John's-" He cuts himself off, brain still refusing to connect the dots. "I have to finish the job. Let me finish and I'll return."

"Sherlock, there is n-"

"I promise." Sherlock cuts in. "I promise I'll return as soon as I'm done. Just let me finish the job."

There is no answer except the dial tone. But as he lowers the mobile from his ear, the cockpit door opens and the pilot almost bumps into Sherlock.

"Whoa, sorry sir." The man apologizes with an easy-going grin. "We've had a change of plans. I apologize about the confusion. It seems you still have unfinished business in Moscow. Just relax and we should be there in an hour or so."

He closes the door and Sherlock heads back to his seat. He sits down and looks out the window and feels nothing.

Sherlock doesn't keep his promise.

He finds the man – one Sebastian Moran – surrounded by Mycroft's most trusted and skilled minions. They let him through but they do not leave the room when Sherlock demands them to do so. No matter the amount of dirt Sherlock reveals, they stand firm and in the end, Sherlock cannot stand the sound of Moran's laughter so he grabs one of the minion's guns, aims at Moran's head and pulls the trigger. He sneaks away when the minions are busy clearing all evidence of theirs and Sherlock's presence.

For a week, Sherlock remains in Moscow; evading Mycroft's men and his calls. The man calls him so constantly that Sherlock has to throw his mobile away eventually. He submerges himself in the culture, even plays a real game of Russian Roulette. Only once though, the man sitting beside Sherlock had drawn the short straw and Sherlock had ended up with warm blood splattered all over his face.

After the week is over, Sherlock has nowhere to go and he does not want to go back to London but does anyways. Because it's sentiment that's holding him from going back and Sherlock refuses to acknowledge that he cared because he didn't and he never will.

Mrs Hudson hits him over the head with a pan when he sneaks into 221B Baker Street and promptly faints when she realizes exactly who she's given a concussion to. When she comes to, she's smiling and running her hand over Sherlock's face and then she's crying and pulling him close into her arms.

"Oh Sherlock." She's sobbing and Sherlock can feel her tears on his neck when she buries her face into the crook of his neck. "I'm so very sorry."

She continues crying and Sherlock wants to snap at her but doesn't because he knows that she's the one that found…

Eventually she tires herself out and falls asleep. Sherlock leaves her and steps outside. Mycroft's assistant is waiting for him, just like he knew she would, and Sherlock gets into the car without a protest.

They're taken to hotel that Sherlock's brain refuses to register and she passes him a key card before leaving. Sherlock heads up to the room he's been assigned by Mycroft and collapses onto the bed. His brain his whirring and Sherlock thinks, for the first time, that it's too loud because he wants to fall asleep and never wake up.

He falls asleep sooner or later and when he rises, it's to sunlight blinding his eyes and the news that Moriarty is real and that the Reichenbach hero has risen from the dead.

Mycroft doesn't come to visit, a wise choice on his part. If he came within a one mile radius of Sherlock and Sherlock knew, he would hunt the man down and just… _hurt_ him.

From then on, whenever Sherlock steps out, he's crowded by reporters and fans. Some want answers, some want him to take up a case, some want his signature but all offer him their deepest sympathies and because of that, Sherlock barely leaves the hotel.

And he's going crazy with nothing but his own thoughts to occupy his mind but he'd rather go insane than to see any pitying gaze directed towards him.

It takes Mycroft three weeks to take the elevator up to Sherlock's hotel room. He does not defend himself when Sherlock punches him and Sherlock cannot – refuses to – fight him if he's not fighting back. And so he moves away, lets Mycroft stand up with his nose bleeding and blood on his suit.

"No flowers on graves?" Mycroft asks once he's cleaned himself up and his nose stops bleeding.

Sherlock snorts. "Sentiment."

They have nothing more to say and so fall into a silence that lasts for an age.

After three weeks of leaving his mind to rot, Sherlock is used to the feeling of everything slowly falling apart.

What does it matter when all of it has already come crashing down anyways?

Mycroft, however, is not. "Good afternoon Sherlock." He says when he gets up to leave.

"I don't care." Sherlock can't help but call out.

Mycroft stops walking and turns around, leaning half of his weight on his damned umbrella. "Of course you don't." He agrees amiably enough before leaving.

Molly Hooper is the one to visit next.

"Hi." She gives him a flustered smile that fades when Sherlock does not return it.

She's holding flowers in her hands, Sherlock notes.

"I was wondering if you'd like…" She pauses and smiles once more. "If you'd like to come on a walk with me."

"No."

Her smile fades. "Well you see… I was – I was heading down… I'm heading down to the cemetery and I t-"

Sherlock slams the door shut in her face.

When she finally stops standing outside the door, Sherlock's brain – his beautiful and glorious and chaotic Mind Palace – continues to decay and fall apart.

Before the walls come tumbling down, Lestrade breaks down the hotel door – Sherlock's been refusing to move ever since Molly's visit – and he pulls Sherlock into a rib-shattering embrace.

He pulls away and then practically forces poorly cooked eggs down Sherlock's mouth before leading him down to the station and throwing a file at his head.

And with an unsolved case thrown before his decaying mind, Sherlock can't help but give into temptation.

Years pass.

Sherlock's fame fades to a level where he is no longer mobbed by reporters and fans, though mostly because they realize just how cutting his words can be.

He continues to take cases and help Lestrade or another member of the MET whenever they ask for it.

Mrs Hudson becomes Sherlock's housekeeper though remains in a firm denial that she's not.

Sherlock continues slamming the door in Molly's face.

He almost burns down 221B Baker Street in a failed attempt to purge his mind of memories that refuse to be deleted and then wisely decides to move out.

Mycroft finds him the new flat. Sherlock doesn't care about what amenities it has. He doesn't fill the place up. It has the bare necessities but remains blank otherwise. Just like his mind needs to be.

More years pass.

Lestrade is promoted to the head of his department.

Mrs Hudson passes away in her sleep.

Irene Adler betrays Mycroft and makes her cunning and daring escape.

Molly finds a new boyfriend; one that isn't gay or pretending to be gay to hide the fact that he's actually a psychopath.

And Sherlock finds that life is passing him by.

Years continue to pass.

Lestrade decides to begin dating because he finally realizes that his wife will never come back.

Irene Adler dies. Shot by some unknown assassin that had been sent by one of her many enemies. It displeases Mycroft that he was not the one to find her.

Molly is engaged and pregnant and Sherlock hates the fact that she's decided to name her son Hamish.

"It's not to torture you or anything." She had stammered pathetically when he'd found out. "It's just that… J-well we grew rather close after you left and I-"

By that time Sherlock had slammed the ward door in her face because he could not stand her voice for a moment longer.

Mycroft grows fatter as his power extends from the British government into European law.

And life continues to pass Sherlock by.

The years continue passing.

Lestrade dies in the line of duty and all Sherlock knows is that Sally Donovan has taken his place as head of the department.

Molly's child – Sherlock refuses to use his name – is the devil in disguise and her husband is a pushover.

Mycroft does not, unfortunately, grow fatter.

Sherlock breaks his leg during a case and is confined to taking cases that require no travel. Other than that, life continues passing him by.

The years begin blurring into one another.

Mummy dies. So many people attend her funeral and so many of them pretend to cry whereas her sons do not shed even one tear.

Sherlock discovers, much to his surprise and chagrin, that he's the Godfather of Molly's child.

Mycroft's reach continues spreading.

And just as the years begin to blur together, so too does Sherlock's memories.

Once more, years pass.

Molly's child tries to set Sherlock's hair on fire, further proving his theory that the child is the devil, or his spawn at the very least. Molly denies this theory vehemently even when the child is found burning every single piece of clothing in his household.

Mycroft begins losing his hair. He refuses to admit he's going bald just as vehemently as Molly denies Sherlock's theory.

And once more, life passes Sherlock by.

The years stop passing by so quickly.

Molly's child is diagnosed as a pyromaniac and she refuses to let Sherlock experiment on him.

Mycroft decides to get hair treatment before all of his hair falls down.

And Sherlock finds that everything is slowing down.

Another year begins to pass by.

Sherlock is bedridden in a private hospital and can barely move. Everything hurts, even opening his eyes hurts and so he rarely opens them.

Molly visits him with her husband and her child and Sherlock can hear her sobbing at his bedside. She scolds her child once; it's when he sets the flowers on Sherlock's bedside table on fire. To Sherlock's delight, she calls him the devil incarnate.

Mycroft wants Sherlock to be treated but Sherlock refuses. He may be the most powerful man in the world, but this is the one place where he is powerless.

And though the year passes by, Sherlock does not.

In the end, Sherlock was so very tired. His Mind Palace continued to stand tall but the clutter inside began to fade.

He was barely breathing, wires and tubes were going in and out of his body to help him do so and he could not talk, not unless he wanted to feel agonizing pain.

And Molly – the woman who rarely left his side – told him that he'd begun hallucinating but he knew he hadn't. He'd told her as much, even though the pain was almost unbearable.

He'd seen Irene Adler through the window. She had nodded her head and gave him a small smile before walking away. He'd seen James 'Jim' Moriarty. The man had roused him from sleep with a loud and cheerful 'hi'.

And then he'd leaned closer, placed his lips millimeters away from Sherlock's ear to whisper: "Let's play a game Sherlock."

And Sherlock wanted to say no but it hurt too much to talk and he was so very tired as well.

He'd seen Lestrade after that. The man had been leaning against the doorway, grinning at him like an idiot. And then he'd seen Mrs Hudson complaining about the dead flowers in the vase on his bedside table.

One day, Molly was in so much anguish – the woman was rather weak with handling her emotions – that she'd left the room in tears. And that's when Sherlock struggled to open his eyes and saw John.

He was sitting in the chair that Molly usually sat in and smiling brightly and pleasantly at Sherlock. And he looked just as Sherlock remembered him. Small, average, sentimental, dull and the greatest conductor of light there ever was.

Sherlock's Mind Palace was empty but he remembered Afghanistan (or was it Iraq?), whispers of 'amazing' and 'brilliant' and 'fantastic', a game, a roof, a plea of no and a fall.

And though it caused him terrible and agonizing pain, he opened his mouth to say a word, a name.

"_John…?"_

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**:( The wait for season three is killing me...us (me and my sister). JOHNLOCK ALL DA WAAAAYY! Suggest any and all angst-ridden Johnlock fics to us. Try to avoid smut. Most of you aren't old enough for it and my virgin eyes aren't prepared for that kinda $#!T.**

**Darii out.**


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